Real Life
by MarcoLover16
Summary: Fiction is all Bella trusts. She slowly learns that she has to face reality at some point, which means she should stop trying to fix her broken family. She will hide in her fairy tale land, however, until she gets too old. Reality can suck. Please read.
1. Sick Obsessions

**Author's Note: I've been busy doing so many other things lately, and though I've been in the mood to write, I've been having some issues with my stories. Those of you who read my other stories probably noticed I haven't updated anything in a while. Maybe it's been more than a month. I'm sorry. I'd explain, but it's kind of complicated. It's not exactly writer's block that I'm dealing with. **_**Anyway, **_**I'm not sure how amazing this little story is going to be. It's one of those stories that I only have a tiny idea for…and it could change as it goes on. It's mainly a story to, you know, get me back out there. Please review. Feedback would be really helpful. By the way, this piece is sort of like a companion piece to **_**An Artist's Mistakes**_** (which is not nearly completed), but you don't have to read that to understand this. This chapter's pretty short. It's sort of just an introduction. Enjoy. :). **

I once saw a movie about a separated couple. At age ten, their daughter became seriously ill, and the man and woman both wanted to spend time with her. I didn't pay attention to the daughter. I didn't care what happened to her. All that mattered to me was the future of the couple. Fortunately, the couple had time to talk and laugh and kiss…and anything else a reconciling couple would want to do.

The movie had a happy ending. The man and the woman got back together.

Well, of _course _they did; the movie wasn't based on a true story. _That's _the only way an unrealistic and happy ending could be truly appreciated. No, it wasn't based on a true story. But it _was _based on a book, which, in my opinion, is more dependable than any true story. Real life has always been completely overrated.

It was no secret to anyone that I liked to read. In fact, I pretty much taught myself at age four. My mother and I were in the waiting room of a doctor's office when a picture book about a talking spider and a singing tree caught my eye. Who could resist that temptation? I begged my mother to read it to me, and she did. Seven times.

That's where the relationship between books and me began.

But this story isn't about my love for fiction. This story is about the two human beings that brought me into the world. The nonfiction world. The world where happy endings, singing trees, and talking spiders are difficult to find. In other words, this story is about my parents.

I believe I read the happy ending story—about the couple, not the tree—when I was eight years old. It was then, I suppose, that I became obsessed with disease. An odd obsession, but an obsession, nonetheless.

At least once a week, I would complain about a headache or a stomachache. Renée usually suggested Tums or Children's Motrin, so I realized, if I wanted to get my parents back together, I would have to do something bigger. About a week after my ninth birthday, I tried to get my mom to believe I had a life-threatening disease.

"_Mom, I need to talk to you."_

_Renée raised an eyebrow and muted the television. "Something wrong, honey?"_

_I nodded solemnly. "Mom," I said, trying not to choke. I was not the best liar. "I have some very bad news."_

_I came closer, blocking the television. "I have a very serious disease."_

"_Oh, you do?" She looked amused. _

"_Yes," I said. "I might die."_

_She seemed unable to keep the smile off her face. "That's a shame. You're so young."_

_I sighed, my temper getting the best of me. "Mom! That's not what you're supposed to say!" Without another word, I ran to my bedroom and slammed the door. She didn't come to get me._

Needless to say, I wasn't doing a very good job. After visiting the school nurse three or four times a week for an entire year, I could feel people getting agitated.

"_I know that you're just trying to get out of class, Bella. There's nothing wrong with you."_

But I wasn't. I had nothing against class! Was it a crime to try to bring my parents back to each other? Did no one understand? Could no one see what I was trying to do?

One day, I was forced to ask myself terrible questions. Could it be that…the book was unreliable? Was it true that…happy endings didn't exist? Did no one believe in fairy tales? Were they not _real? _

No. What could be better than a book? Nothing. Nothing at all.

I tried to ignore the questions. I just had to try harder.

On the night of my twelfth birthday, an idea hit me. I felt so stupid for not having thought of it sooner. I was focusing on getting _sick _when it was much easier, especially when I considered how I always accidentally hurt myself, to give myself a _bad_ injury. No one would be able to accuse me of faking it. Unfortunately, I realized, too late, that sticking my foot into the fireplace wouldn't appear to be an accident to any person with a quarter of a brain.

Instead of ending up with two parents living under one roof, I started therapy, and my parents had an angry conversation over the phone about how irresponsible my mother was.

"Pizza sound good to you? I'm exhausted."

"Whatever," I muttered, engrossed in homework.

I could feel her eyes on me, but I pretended to be oblivious.

Finally, she cracked. "Okay, so how was therapy?"

"Fine," I said, not looking up from the word problem I was trying to figure out. "We talked about how you beat me every night."

Renée didn't seem to appreciate the joke. "Isabella."

I rolled my eyes. "If you _must _know, we talked about school. Fascinating."

"That's what I'm paying for?"

"If you'd like, I could mention _that _comment next week."

Renée smiled. "How's your foot?"

"Ugly," I replied, impatiently tapping my finger against my textbook. "Oh, by the way…"

"Hmm?"

"Mark called," I finished. "He wanted you to call him back."

"Oh," she said, failing to hide how pleased she was. "I'll just go do that."

And she left me alone, just the way I liked it.

-- -- -- -- --

"Forks is the same as it's always been."

"Good to hear."

"How's your foot?"

I didn't want to talk about my damn foot ever again. "I'll survive, dad." I quickly changed the subject. "Mom wants to throw me a belated birthday party."

He chuckled. "Oh, boy."

"Exactly," I said, hugging a pillow to my chest. "She's inviting like every friend she has and every kid she remembers me _ever _mentioning. I so don't want to pretend to be happy about it."

I expected him to laugh or make some kind of comment about how ridiculous parties were, but he didn't. He was silent for a good three minutes, and then he said, "Bella," very, very slowly.

I was thrown off. "Yes?"

"Is everything…okay with you…and your mom…at home?"

My dad understood me better than anyone else did. I thought he, of all people, would have believed me when I said I was _not _suicidal.

"Yes," I said simply.

He cleared his throat. "And—and you'd tell me if things were not, right?"

"I would."

He seemed to believe me, but I still could detect a touch of concern in his tone. "Maybe you can come down with the flu."

"Excuse me?"

"On the day of the party," he clarified. "You could pretend to get the flu."

"Oh," I said, laughing. Or I could pray to _really _get the flu. "True."

"Bella! I need the phone!"

Reluctantly, I told my dad I had to go. "She hasn't talked to her boyfriend in like an hour. She could die."

"I understand," he said. He didn't sound like he did. "I miss you."

"I know," I said, absentmindedly pulling feathers out of the pillow. "I miss you, too. "

I hung up after there was another loud knock on my door. "Mom," I shouted, throwing the phone at the door. "Get a damn cell phone."

How long would I need to wait for an "accidental" break of my leg to not sound suspiciously planned?

Too long.


	2. Requirements

Author's Note: I might have mentioned this before: these chapters do not go in chronological order. I think I originally planned to have the stuff that's supposed to happen in this "section" in one chapter. (I don't know how to explain that properly.) However, for a number of reasons, I decided to split it into two. I hope you enjoy. :)

"What is she _thinking?"_

Mary shook her head. "I don't know, Bella."

Bella let out a frustrated scream and let her head fall into her open palms. "Kill me," she murmured. "_Kill _me."

Mary smiled sympathetically and raised her cousin's chin. "It's not all that bad," she said, trying to look on the bright side. "The shoes are nice."

"_High heels."_

"Well, you might get your wish, then," said Mary, chuckling softly. "With your luck, maybe the shoes will kill you."

Bella glared, clearly not amused. "This is not the time for jokes."

"Of course," said Mary, sobering up quickly after recognizing Bella's serious tone. "No laughter here."

Bella stood up from her bed and took a deep breath. She held up the dress in front of herself once again, hoping that it didn't look as bad as she thought it would.

"Lock the door," she ordered.

Mary took a long look at Bella, dressed in silky royal blue. The dress was strapless and, if Bella were asked for her opinion, it was a bit revealing for a maid of honor. It came down to just a bit below the knees and was covered in white stars. Small bells hung from the lace at the lacey bottom.

Renée preferred to be unique.

"Lord, hear my prayer," Bella said quietly, squeezing her eyes shut. "Let my mother change her mind about the wedding. She doesn't really need to get married."

"It really doesn't look too bad on you, Bells. No kidding around."

Bella refused to look in the mirror. "When I walk…bells ring," she said simply. "I'm taking it off."

"If it makes you feel any better," Mary said, watching Bella slowly walk out of her bedroom, "mine has a lot of ruffles, and I think there's a little penguin design on the back."

"This is my life."

When she sat down to dinner with her mother, Bella had no doubt in her mind that something would go wrong; something _always _went wrong. It was the day before the rehearsal dinner, and still, the planning was not finished. Renée had changed her mind so many times that Jennifer, her older sister, decided to quit.

Then, Bella took the job.

It was bad enough that she had to be there, dressed up beautifully (in her mother's eyes) for both the rehearsal and the wedding without the added pressure of being a wedding planner. Knowing her luck, the whole thing would fall apart, and Bella did not want that on her conscience.

"Bell?"

Bella was brought back to the present. "Hmm?"

Renée looked at her knowingly with a slight frown on her face. "Tell me."

"It's nothing," said Bella softly, staring down at her plate. She took a large bite of a breadstick to make sure her mouth was busy. She knew her mother would see right through every lie she told.

Renée took her plate away from her. "You're not happy," she said.

"Maybe because I wanted to finish that breadstick."

"Bella," said Renée. "Bella, I'm serious."

Bella sighed. Her mother was so rarely serious, but when she was, she would continue to push until she got the answers she needed.

Looking down at her lap, Bella answered timidly. "I hate the dress."

Renée was not pleased with the response she received. "That's not what this is about."

"Oh, it's not?" Bella challenged, her bad temper shorter than usual due to stress. "Why don't you tell me what it's about, Mom?"

Renée didn't yell. When she spoke, her voice was somehow filled with both compassion and frustration. "I think," she said, taking Bella's hand into her own, "that you don't want me to marry Phil."

Bella pulled her hand away. "You have thought that from the night he proposed."

"I think it's true."

"I think it's _not,"_ said Bella.

Bella was tired of her mother telling her how she herself felt. She was tired of planning, of the shining engagement ring, the dresses, the make-up, the high heels, the flowers, the kissing, the planning, the hand-holding, the talking, the planning, the love in the air, the planning, the word _wedding, _the planning.

And she was simply tired of Renée and Phil.

Renée sighed. "Do you not want me to go through with this, Bella? Is it making you unhappy?"

Did her mother not understand what she had said? She didn't _care_ if they got married. Why would it matter?

They would probably be separated by the end of two months anyway, so Bella wouldn't need to make a big adjustment.

Maybe Renée was having second thoughts. Bella took a deep breath before she spoke, afraid to hurt her mother.

"Do _you _want this, Mom?" she asked, looking directly into Renée's eyes.

Her eyes, which were previously rather concerned, widened. "Of course!" she said.

Bella couldn't deny the sincerity she saw there. It was clear that Renée—for the time being—was really looking forward to her wedding. And she didn't want to ruin it for her. The horror of the wedding would be worth it if it made her mother so happy.

Bella smiled genuinely. "It's really okay."

Renée raised an eyebrow, but she nodded. Bella couldn't fake a smile if her life depended on it.

"May I have my plate back?"

Two hours later, Bella found herself pacing the floor in her bedroom while chewing on the antenna of a phone.

"Okay, Bella," she whispered. "You can do this."

"Yes." She nodded. "Okay."

Deciding not to turn back no matter how nervous she may have been, she dialed the number. Tapping her foot impatiently, she waited for Charlie to pick up the phone.

He answered on the fourth ring. "Hello?"

Bella cleared her throat. "Dad?"

Charlie sounded very surprised. "Bella? Is something wrong, honey?"

Bella bit her lip. She made a mental note to try to call Charlie more often.

"No. Actually, everything's very good."

"Good," said Charlie, calming down. "So…"

"So…" Bella repeated. "How is everything in Washington?"

"Oh, you know… It's raining."

Bella laughed softly. "That's not surprising."

"Nope," Charlie said.

It was awkward, talking to Charlie. The only thing that made it easier was that Bella knew Charlie felt the same way. It was just as hard for him as it was for her—maybe even more so.

"Well…Mom's getting married."

Charlie was silent for a moment. "I already know that, Bella. Did you just want to remind me to think of it more frequently?"

He didn't sound angry, but rather hopeless.

"It's the day after tomorrow," Bella said, twirling a lock of hair around her finger.

"And—"

"And I want you to come."

He didn't answer for a long time. He was so quiet, in fact, that Bella wondered if he had hung up on her. Finally, she heard him exhale.

"Bella," he said. He sounded as if his throat were sore. "Bella, you can't just invite me like that."

"I can, and I did. I'm handling the planning of this wedding," she said, struggling to keep her voice steady, "so if I say you're invited, you're invited."

"Bella—"

"When I say invited," said Bella, "I mean you have to come. It's a requirement."

Charlie sighed, frustrated. "Isabella, why do you want me to be there?" he asked, and Bella was sure that it was hard for him to remain as calm as he was. "No good can come of that."

Bella wasn't going to give up that easily.

"I'll call you tomorrow," she said.

And she hung up.

Author's Note: Please review. :) Please. I'm really excited about writing (or technically typing) the next part.


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